


Something There

by allthemeadowswide



Category: When Calls the Heart (TV)
Genre: F/M, Introspection, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 03:12:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16925418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthemeadowswide/pseuds/allthemeadowswide
Summary: Takes place in S5E9, "Weather the Storm." Bill's jumpy post-anti-venom thoughts on AJ, feelings, and the future.





	Something There

**Author's Note:**

> For Sara for her birthday (10 December). ♥
> 
> Bill's thoughts are a little all over the place; a product of an attempt to create a jumpy narrative for a character whose body has just been under extreme stress (and has not had any time to actually recover). Thoughts/comments/advice are welcome. Thank you for reading!

The anti-venom seemed to be working. Things were quieter, now, or at least calmer. A prelude to something bigger, he couldn’t help but think. Not that Bill was capable of rational thought as he was, stretched out in a wagon with venom still slithering through his veins. His body had stopped shaking but his mind darted from one line item to another, as if it could help him make sense of the last few days.

He tried placing events in chronological order. That was the most logical way to do things. But they refused true organization and came to him unbidden in whatever order they chose. There was AJ. Investors. Frustration. Abigail’s well-meaning but no less irritating meddling, if it could be called that. The saloon and AJ’s loud, definitely fake laughter. __This is silly, Bill. Why can’t we just__ _ _talk?__  Anger. The kiss. __You left out a part.__ A big part. It’ll be okay. __You’ll be okay.__

He mentally waved the cloud of thoughts away. It felt heavy and confusing, and in light of the fact that he’d dodged death by what felt like a hair’s breadth, it seemed inconsequential. Circumstantial evidence?

No, not exactly.

It just didn’t matter. Not anymore.

Or maybe it did. To her? He couldn’t be sure anymore what meant or didn’t mean anything to AJ. She was the kind of puzzle that was better left alone, untouched. For both their sakes, but especially his.

Was that unfair?

Abigail would call it shortsighted, but Bill was pretty sure it was the opposite. Then again, was he thinking straight, blood swimming with venom and anti-venom, heart still pounding despite the cool morning air? Maybe anything would make sense right now if he chose to imagine it.

She __had__  kissed him. He remembered that much. And he’d kissed back, but that was beside the point. It was reflexive. Probably. Had to be.

Bill Avery didn’t go around kissing people just because; __he’d__  last kissed Dottie and it had been nice. Careful. He had a good memory; that was what had made him so good at his job when he’d had it. Dottie had been cool and smooth. Effective. Not what either of them had expected, or wanted, but they were both game to try again, just in case. He liked that about Dottie: she wasn’t a quitter. But the second time felt just the same as the first and they’d quietly ended things over it. No hard feelings. Nothing lost. Both felt some pinch of disappointment, though; or maybe he only hoped so. It would have been convenient if it had worked. It might have even been nice.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? They’d both had nice. They’d both had something like convenience, maybe with love, in Dottie’s case. Bill wouldn’t presume to know her relationship to Silas; he could only speak for his own relationship. Nora. Who hadn’t ever loved him and had never even needed him. Not for herself. Only for Martin. And without Martin…

He shifted, holding back a groan at the effort it required just to move, but the pain dispelled his thoughts.

Now wasn’t the time to think of that, he reminded himself. AJ was still here, and she’d saved his life. It meant something, he was sure of it. But what? What could something like that mean, coming from someone like her?

Or was it presumptuous of him to decide he knew her when he only knew the smallest things about her?

His memory was good. Usually impeccable. He didn’t forget faces or voices. Not easily. Not AJ’s. He’d accidentally committed her to memory, and he hadn’t forgotten that kiss, either. That was only natural, though, wasn’t it? How could a person forget being kissed that way? He hadn’t seen it coming and it had been hungry; heated, her lips sliding against his. Nothing about it made sense then and it didn’t make sense now.

Hungry.

For what? Him?

Unlikely.

That left just one explanation. One logical one, of course. She’d just done it to get to him, to bring his defenses down enough that he’d let her go. She didn’t know him at all if she thought he’d do something like that. He wasn’t a Mountie anymore, let alone a chief of anything, but he still took his work seriously. It was a favor to Jack, after all.

But she’d been a little successful. He’d kissed her back, and in those moments of doing so he hardly knew himself. That had been almost frightening, and it had taken him months to admit it even to himself.

When she escaped the cell all on her own, he’d been a little glad for it. It took the confusion away and the conflict, too. It answered the question that had been banging around in his head for the hours between locking her up and finding her gone: __why__?

She’d just been using him.

It was all right. He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t bring himself to mind too much—only because she was gone, because it wouldn’t ever matter again.

But he’d kissed her back. Maybe clumsily. He couldn’t remember much of his own actions. Just hers. Kissing him. It couldn’t have lasted ten seconds from start to the jail door closing, but it was hard to forget. Her fingers tight on his jacket, her lips warm against his. Almost hot. Scalding. He’d just reacted to it, an unconscious response, but it had felt good. People didn’t just kiss Bill Avery, either. That she’d done it to get to him was bad enough. That he was still thinking about it… He wanted it to mean that she was just good at it. That was all. She knew what she was doing. Maybe she’d had a lot of practice. But it had made him feel something for just a moment, and he’d almost been outside of his own body watching it happen, his hand on her shoulder uncertain if he wanted to pull her closer or push her away. His first thought had made his stomach swoop; it was wrong and he knew it, but he also knew she’d let him, and that it’d feel—

Again, the thoughts dissipated, this time when the back end of the wagon suddenly dipped. He opened his eyes to see AJ pulling herself up in the usual fashion: a strange kind of clumsy, neither gentle nor rough, as she was with all things. It was only an observation, one he’d made right after meeting her. A scratch across her cheek, a bruise on her hand; she’d saved his life in that same manner. Not that it mattered. He couldn’t think about it now.

He would probably do so later, when he had time to wonder about the details. For now all that mattered was that it had happened.

And because it had, he knew he’d judged her unfairly. At least a little bit. AJ was a lot of things, but maybe she really __was__  loyal. Or something like it. He couldn’t parse his thoughts properly with her making her way closer, pressing the palm of her bruised hand to his face in a way he found almost comical. What would she do if there was a fever? Fix it? Maybe he had to see the humor in it, though, because he couldn’t face what the rest of it meant, or only might-mean.

She cared.

He remembered her saying that, or at least thought he did. Was it possible that had been the product of a fever dream? __“It’s probably the fever talking.”__  He suddenly wasn’t sure what had been said aloud and what had stayed inside his shivering brain. There were a few things he hoped he hadn’t said. Silly things. Nonsense thoughts.

Maybe none of that mattered, either.

He hadn’t been entirely fair to her. He had to make that better, somehow. Or less bad, if he could.

But she was asking him how he felt, fingers skimming through his hair, and looked at him as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t. Or maybe it was only that she didn’t dare say what she was thinking. It didn’t really matter, now; there wouldn’t be time to discuss it. He had to be honest: he felt better. She seemed relieved, shoulders relaxing the smallest bit at his words.

But now that she knew he was all right, it was time for her to go. The worst came out reluctantly, like she didn’t want to go. Like she wasn’t ready.

His brain suddenly seemed a little clearer. The red coats milling about a few yards behind the wagon. Her own escort. Of course. That was right. She had to go to a sentencing…and he had something for her.

So he made the effort to get the telegram out, not remembering the exact reason he’d chosen to carry it with him but glad he’d thought to do it, and presented it to her the best way he could manage, and—

He felt his breath catch a little at the look on her face: something like gratitude. Relief. Hope? It seemed ten different emotions flew by in the span of a second. There might have been a dash of disappointment there, too, and he thought he knew why. He wanted to take back some things that he’d said to her over the last couple of days. It wasn’t really justice that she was going to stand trial. Even if she served less time than Henry Gowen, it was still time, and she was still a woman. It would be unpleasant at best, and a nightmare at worst. Georgia’s recommendation for time didn’t necessarily mean anything…but it was better than nothing. It was __something__. It was all AJ had.

He couldn’t push __sorry__  past his lips. Words were hard and he was suddenly feeling too much. It wasn’t justice but it was how things were. She had to go with these men she didn’t know and probably couldn’t trust. How had she convinced them to come? Why were they allowing her this small kindness right now, just to say goodbye to him?

It was a question for later.

Or never, his brain taunted him, if she died in prison. Guilt sat heavy in his chest, immovable in the face of reality; it was possible she wouldn’t make it through the experience. AJ was stubborn, and a survivor, but it wasn’t up to her. Not really.

She turned to leave, the movement awkward, as if she wanted to be stopped again.

He couldn’t apologize properly, and certainly not quickly enough. He didn’t have many words right now.

But he did have feelings. They were confusing and conflicting, but they were there and she’d expressed a desire to know them—to have him admit to their existence.

Was it fair to do that when he didn’t quite understand them himself? When they were incomplete and messy? When he looked so rough and smelled like sweat and charcoal? It seemed like the wrong time, but what did timing matter if nothing was ever said? Perfection didn’t exist. It was messy or it was nothing, and he’d take messy every time.

So he reached for her, fingers clumsily grasping at the collar of her coat, and pulled her closer until she got the hint.

She was smart. Clever. He liked that about her.

She came three-quarters of the way, leaving the last bit to him. It was all he could manage like this, heart still feeling jumpy, limbs heavy and aching. But he needed to do it himself.  

This time, __he__  kissed __her__.

It wasn’t hot and hungry like the last one, but soft and warm and goodbye-for-now. A ring of fire around the edges. Imperfect, perhaps, but that meant there was room for improvement; a next time seemed perfectly likely.

She seemed to understand the things he couldn’t bring himself to say, the things they didn’t have time to discuss. Part of them, at least.

“I knew you had that in you,” she said, softly, as if she hadn’t doubted his feelings even once. There was something to like about her surefooted boldness. But he hoped, more than that, that she knew it had come from a genuine place. It wasn’t a placating gesture even though he __was__  deeply sorry for the hurt he’d caused her. It meant something. He couldn’t say exactly what. The kiss wasn’t a declaration of love, of feelings he couldn’t parse himself, because that wasn’t fair to either of them. But it __was__  an admission that there was something there, between them, and an invitation to talk about it later, if she wanted.

He watched her go, something shifting in his chest when she scrambled up onto her borrowed horse, not an ounce of grace in the movement. A small part of him would miss that, those little mannerisms that were so distinctly __her__.

He didn’t really want her to go, but she had to, and so did he, so he watched her until she disappeared into the foliage, surrounded by red coats.

She would be all right.

He had to believe she would be.

And the next time he saw her, when she was safe again and things were better for them both, maybe they would be able to finish their conversation.


End file.
